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hki> M. 1>K\V'ITT 










Blinti Cfjiltiren 






Thirty Lafayette Place 



PiMisked in AfrU^ igoj 

••• • •/ • ,•• " 

Take, Dear, my ^prentice songs. 
And — since you cared for one, 
" Blind Children,''— let them all 
Share in its blessedness. 
Find shelter 'neath its name. 
Are they not verily 
Blind Children, one and all; 
Wistfully haunted by 
That unattainable 
Glamorous sea of light 
True poems float within f 
Ah, could they hope to catch 
One strange rich gleam of it. 
As they go haltingly. 
Feeling their way to you. 
Tapping their road to Truth, 
Groping their path to God! 


This is a selection of the better part of the 
verses that have accumulated in manuscript 
or in magazines, journals, and the writer'* s 
own books during the last twenty years, and 
represents, therefore, as many moods. The 
piece that has precedence as the longest is also 
the oldest, or rather the youngest, 

Florence, December, igo2. 



Sylva Poetarum i 

At the Worst 6 

A London Hospital 8 

Blind Children 12 

Faith and Words 14 

Pastoral 15 

A Song of Life 16 

Vision 17 

The Argosy 18 

Sunset 19 

Ad Cantatricem 20 

A River Rondeau 21 

A Spring Thought 22 

Love and Death 23 

Death's Transfiguration 24 

Forever Young 25 

With the Dead 26 

The Bridge 27 

Perspective 28 

Rosalind Reading an Old Romance 29 

To a Pretty Girl 30 

Chastity 31 

Helena: An Early Portrait 32 

To Helena — Later 32 




Psychology 33 

Winter 34 

Spring in the Strand 35 

Maligned 36 

Love's Bubble 37 

Evolution 38 

The Sign-post 39 

A Stage Illusion 40 

Love's Prayer 41 

Love and Letters 42 

Inexhaustible 43 

Song 44 

A Pastel 45 

Ballade of a Curious Couple 47 

May 49 

Feminine Theology 50 

Street Wanderers 51 

Aspiration 52 

Blind Fools 53 

Expectation 54 

A Summer Song 55 

Love's Labor Lost 56 

Realization 57 

Two Kinds of Love 58 

To a Dear Inconstant 59 

Sundered 60 

Wasted 61 

Lost 62 

Aprhs 63 

Asti Spumante 64 

Dead Memories 66 

A Song of Subscriptions 67 




Country Holiday Fund ^ 68 

The Peace Conference 69 

A Political Character 70 

In Mentone 71 

To Joseph Jacobs 73 

The Esthete's Damnation 74 

Why do We Live? 76 

The Prophet's Message 78 

In the Morgue 79 

Night Moods 80 

Terror in Darkness 80 

At Dead o' Night 80 

Hopeless 81 

The Sign. 82 

Dream Picture 83 

To the Bless&i Christ 84 

Incarnation 85 

Hinc lUae Lachrymae 86 

Vanitas Vanitatum 87 

Summer Evening Rain in London 88 

Dreams 89 

Voiceless 90 

The Cynic 91 

At the Zoo 92 

Despair and Hope 93 

The Sense of Justice 94 

A Winter Morning's Mood 95 

In the City 96 

Sic Transit 97 

" Non Omnis Moriar " 98 

Invocation 99 

Palingenesis 100 




"Might is Right " loi 

The Fight with Evil 102 

A Singer to his Song 103 

Morning Piece 104 

Night Piece 107 

A Working Philosophy 109 

Prolog to "The Revolted Daughter". no 

Prolog to"Children of the Ghetto" 112 

The Hebrew's Friday Night 114 

Seder-Night 117 

Israel as Bride and Beggar 118 

The Jews of England 119 

Melisselda (Turkish Messiah's Song) 120 

Zionist Marching Song 121 

Yom Kippur 124 

A Tabernacle Thought 127 

Israel in Exile: or Harlequin Little Jacob Horner 128 

Moses and Jesus 129 

Israel 130 

Jehovah 132 

Atonement Hymn 134 

Adon Olam 136 



SYLVA POETARUM J : ^>:i ' ^:- 

I He within an ancient wood 

That soothes the heart and stills the blood. 

The leafy tongues in whispers sweet 

Dead poets' syllables repeat. 

Enchanted is each bird and tree, 

The very air is poesy. 

The shady places sacred lie 

To solemn thought and vision high. 

Here mossy oaks in sunshine sleep, 

There bright, cool, living waters leap; 

And, pav'd with clouds that swanlike pass, 

Clear streams meander through the grass. 

I hear from scented thicket float 

Some plaintive songster's magic note. 

For winter's winds I take no fear. 

The flowers blossom all the year. 

The morning star or star of love 

At pleasure palpitates above — 

Fair Hcspcr, queen of fond desire. 

With tender rays of golden fire, 

Or Lucifer, that, chasing night. 

Throbs with serener, purer light. 

Here Truth and Beauty find accord, 

For Man reigns sole and Love is lord. 

And Law is none save man's decree — 

Yea, Man's creative fantasy; 

^.. .^ And luuTkaoi'-eyes grow sweetly wet 
^:\'^ To tliikk^tKat^Life and Love have met. 
: • ;• :^?^9|Yi^^^*^*l?n^ ^^ ^^st and breath, 
:: :•': ••Jirah biillds a world that mocks at death, 
And, bubble in a sea of strife, 
His life a dream, to dreams gives life. 

What white-robed wanderers are these ? 
What white limbs flutter through the trees? 
To yon clear fountains come the Nine, 
And in this vale plays Proserpine. 
(Beneath that beech lies Tityrus, 
And yonder flutes Theocritus.) 
Here Dryads dream and Naiads run, 
And Satyrs frolic in the sun. 
What loveliness gleams from afar? 
Deep-bosomed Venus in her car. 
Faring to where Adonis sleeps. 
Adown the craggy mountain leaps 
Diana of the silver bow. 
As fierce as fire, as pure as snow. 
Aurora spurs her horses white, 
Athena walks, with eye of light. 
Swift-drawn by peacocks Juno glides. 
The flushed Olympians' earth-born brides 
Appear — ^ bunch of living flowers 
Soft-gleaming with celestial showers: 
Zone-girdled maidens, very fair. 
With ivory limbs and amber hair. 
To beauty even gods must bow. 

Apollo, sunshine on his brow, 
And in his hand a shepherd's lyre. 
Whose music charms the woodland quire. 
Follows their train, and Oreads 
Dance lightly down, while piping lads 
Gaze amorous from thymy hills. 
A radiant rout the pasture fills — 
Ambrosia-breathing deities. 
Unstained by human miseries. 

No twilight mist, no subtle charm. 

But noonday sunlight, bright and warm. 

Or cloudless moonshine silver-fair. 

And stainless depths of lucent air; 

A level mead where you may smell 

The amaranthine asphodel, 

And hear with unperturbed ear 

A music joyous, high, and clear, 

A pure, fresh fountain-leap of sound 

Upwelling from a cool, sweet ground. . 

(No undertone of hidden pain 

Like mournful plash of endless rain.) 

Here earth is heaven, heaven earth, 

And of these twain resplendent birth. 

Divinely perfect forms, serene 

In calm white glory move between. 

Ho, Ariel, daintiest of sprites! 
Ho, gnomes and elves that frisk o* nights I 
Immortals, merrily ye come 

Duly at beat of Fancy's drum. 

Here's tricksy Puck a-frolicking, 

And fairies dancing in the ring. 

Titania and Oberon 

Greet Robin Hood and Little John. 

Here's Rosalind in doublet straying, 

Here's Perdita with blossoms playing. 

The lion Una's lily hand 

Is licking— ah ! delightsome land, 

Arcadia, Hesperides, 

Or Arden, whose autochthones. 

Because they never lived, live on. 

And still shall live when we are gone. 

Anon the cuckoo's " wandering voice " 

Breaks out and bids the soul rejoice. 

The lark pours forth his throbbing heart 

With " unpremeditated art " ; 

To heaven's gate, still singing, flies. 

While marybuds " ope golden eyes." 

The nightingale " on bloomy spray " 

Warbles at silent eve his lay ; 

And, when these sounds and sights oppress 

The cabin'd soul with loveliness, 

He fades " into the forest dim," 

The while his fading pinions skim 

A cold wan water lorn of all 

Save one wild swan's song, musical 

With all the magic melodies 

Of mermaids in enchanted seas. 

Within whose haunting notes are set 

Divine delight, divine regret. 


Ah, better this than earthly wood 

That cramps the heart and chills the blood 

With thoughts of never-ending strife 

And sleepless Death pursuing Life ; 

Where ay the race is to the strong. 

The olden magic in the song 

Of birds, the charm of liquid notes 

Down-raining from aerial throats 

We can not feel for stress of pain ; 

For on the sunshine is a stain, 

And on the brow of Day a scar. 

And o'er the Night an evil star. 

The flowers all deflowered lie 
Of that ethereal mystery 
Which clung about a rose's scent. 
And with its perfume subtly blent 
A sense of something infinite, 
Divinely sad, transcending wit. 

The nymphs are gone, the fairies flown, 
The olden Presences unknown, 
The ancient gods forever fled, 
The stars are silent overhead. 
The music of the spheres is still, 
The night is dark, the wind is chill. 
The later gods have followed Pan, 
And Man is left alone with Man. 


" And Man is left alone with Man." 'Tis well ! 
The shapes that on the dusky background fell 
From Man's bright soul, are laid by morning's spell. 

Why stay the Present 'gainst the Past to poise? 
Man grown to Manhood spurns his childish toys 
And wakes to grander fears and hopes and joys. 

If aught is lost that we should long to keep, 
'Tis Manhood's part to work and not to weep. 
Old age comes on and everlasting sleep. 

We are— whatever we have been before. 
We have — whatever gold was in the ore. 
God lives as much as in the days of yore — 

In fires of human love and work and song, 
In wells of human tears that pitying throng, 
In thunder-clouds of human wrath at wrong. 

The burning bush doth not the more consume. 
New branches shoot where old no more illume. 
Eternal splendor flames upon the gloom. 

Tho Hell and Heaven were a dream forgot. 

And unregarded sacrifice our lot, 

We serve God better, deeming He is not. 

Perchance, O ye that toil on tho forlorn, 
By your soul's travail, your own noble scorn. 
The very God ye crave is being born. 

Not yet hath Man of faith and courage failed, 

Albeit dazzled for a space and paled 

By glimpse of Truth — God's awful face unveiled. 

No change need be in all that we hold dear. 
Love, Virtue, Knowledge, Beauty — all are here. 
One Hope is gone but in its train one Fear. 

The sea-wind blows as fresh; the ocean heaves 
As blue and buoyant; Nature nowhere grieves; 
As bright a green is on the forest-leaves. 

Larks sing and roses still are odorous. 
Art, Poetry, and Music still for us, 
And Woman just as fair and marvelous. 

And if the earth with endless fray is rife, 
Acknowledge in the universal strife 
The zest of this, the seed of higher, life. 

Evil is here ? That's work for us to do. 
The Old is dying? Let's beget the New. 
And Death awaits us ? Rest is but our due. 


O house of pain, 

O'erbrooded by the wings of Death, 

Who, starred with eyes, keeps watch on breath 

And heart and brain. 

'Mid greenery 

O'ergloomed by London's sooty pall. 
Weary with echoed wails thy wall 
Stands drearily. 

Toward it veers 

A path which hope and fear have trod, 
Whose stones might blossom like the sod 
With rain of tears. 

And London's veins 
Branch out around — the poisoned courts, 
The dusky roads where Sin resorts, 
The dreary lanes. 

And each so teems 

With pain, with pain, thou seem'st their soul, 
Their inmost heart through which to roll 
Their anguished streams. 


Lo, hither come 

The wounded in th' eternal strife, 
That makes yet mars our mortal life, 
From street and slum. 

The victor. Pain, 

To glut his host retards day's flight 
Until too long for truce of night 
And sleep seems vain. 

Here girls and boys 
That know not life learn lore of death, 
And man-like draw their latest breath 
Amid their toys. 

While battered men 
Grow babes that hunger for the breast 
Of mother earth, to sleep and rest 
And pass from ken. 


When darkness falls 
Without— for, every hour that dies. 
The world grows dark to dying eyes 
Within thy walls — 

In pairs like doves 

'Mid flaring booths and bawling lungs. 

The crowd, with talk in twenty tongues. 

Lolls, laughs, and loves. 


But dying ears 
Ignore the busy living street, 
They hear the voices sad or sweet 
Of buried years. 

What realms are drawn 

Within that narrow space I what sties, 

Yet homes belov'd ! what seas ! what skies 

At scarlet dawn! 

What winged years 
Flit by within each instant's thought, 
With all the comedies they brought, 
And all the tears! 

What faces throng 
From shadowland, that only live 
In dying mem'ries, fugitive, 
But sweet as song ! 


No lovely thought 
Dost thou express in stone ; no will 
Of artist, but the nobler thrill 
By Pity wrought. 

As thee we scan, 
No radiant Grecian god we own. 
Yet God made visible in stone, 
The God in man. 


O house of pain, 

O'erbrooded by the wings of Death, 
Not He alone keeps watch on breath 
And heart and brain. 

Man's wisdom turns 
Blind atoms' gall to healing wine. 
Until the universe Divine 
With mercy burns. 


Art thou of life, where meet the twain 

High mysteries of love and pain 




Laughing, the blind boys 
Run round their college lawn, 
Playing such games of buff 
Over its dappled grass. 

See the blind frolicsome 
Girls in blue pinafores 
Turning their skipping-ropes. 

How full and rich a world 
Theirs to inhabit is — 
Sweet scent of grass and bloom, 
Playmates' glad symphony, 
Cool touch of western wind, 
Sunshine's divine caress. 

How should they know or feel 
They are in darkness? 

But, oh, the miracle ! 
If a Redeemer came, 
Laid finger on their eyes — 
One touch, and what a world, 
New-born in loveliness ! 

Spaces of green and sky. 
Hulls of white cloud adrift, 
Ivy-grown college walls, 
Shining loved faces. 


What a dark world — who knows ?- 
Ours to inhabit is ! 
One touch, and what a strange 
Glory might burst on us, 
What a hid universe ! 

Do we sport carelessly. 
Blindly upon the verge 
Of an Apocalypse? 



What is Speech but just a net in which we seize 

Some medusa, stickleback, or weed of fact, 

While of ocean — ^lef t behind — the lees stream through ? 

Faiths as real if intangible as Song, 

Feeling solid — based upon eternal rock. 

Deep as Life and Death, and old as Truth and Time, 

Do yet tremble when translated into Words. 



A rich-toned landscape, touched with darkling gold 
Of misty, throbbing cornfields, and with haze 
Of softly tinted hills and dreamy wold, 
Lies warm with raiment of soft summer rays. 
And in the magic air there lives a free 
And subtle feeling of the distant sea. 

The perfect day slips softly to its end, 

The sunset paints the tender evening sky, 

The shadows shroud the hills with gray, and lend 

A softened touch of ancient mystery; 

And ere the silent change of heaven's light 

I feel the coming glory of the night. 

Oh, for the sacred, sweet responsive gaze 
Of eyes divine with strange and yearning tears 
To feel with me the beauty of our days, 
The glorious sadness of our mortal years, 
The noble misery of the spirit's strife, 
The joy and splendor of the body's life ! 



Praised be the lips of the Morn 
For their musical message of Light, 
For their bird-chanted burden of Song. 
Praised be the young Earth reborn 
For its freshness and glory and might, 
And the thoughts of high, solemn delight 
That at flash of its purity throng. 

Praised be the lips of the Day 

For their clarion call to the field 

Where the Battle of Life must be fought. 

Praised be the fire of the fray. 

Where the soul is refined and annealed, 

And the spirit heroic revealed. 

And pure gold from base substances wrought. 

Praised be the lips of the Night 
For their murmurous message of Rest, 
For their lullaby, motherly sweet. 
Praised be the dreams of delight. 
While tired Life is asleep in Love's nest. 
And in harmony tender and blest 
Heaven's calm and earth's loveliness meet. 



The barge glided, 

Rusty-hulled, yellow-sailed, on the green water, 
From the dim lands and the child's dreams. 
Oh, the fresh romance and air of morning, 
And the strange, sweet tears ! 



With freight of golden memories 
My galleon sails 'twixt wine-dark seas 
And purple skies. 

Her decks are crowned with visions fair 
Of men and maids, and on the air 
Rich music dies. 

The odors of dim fairy soils 
Enswathe her in sweet subtle coils 
As on she steers 

Through realms of Sleep and Poesie, 
Soft lulled by far-off melody 
From unborn years. 

O memories impalpable ! 

O white sails' dreamlike fall and swell. 

And rise and dip! 

Ah, ghostly men and maidens fair I 

Ah, visionary sea and air! 

O phantom ship ! 



A touch of gold 
Illumes the cold 
And dreamy grace 
Of heaven's face, 
Then slowly dies 
Like melody, 
And darkness lies 
On earth and sea — 
'Tis sunset I 

Good-by to light 
And visions clear. 
For lo ! the night. 
The night is here. 

But in the morn 
Of sunny air, 
When life is fair, 
And love is born. 
The glory dies 
In youthful eyes, 
Whose lids are wet 
With wild regret — 
'Tis sunset ! 

Good-by to light 
And visions dear, 
And, weep! the night. 
The night is here. 


Waken, O songstress, enchantress, the springtide's 

Scatter the roses and lilies, the tulips and pansies. 

Snatch the dull scepter of Chronos, his iron laws scorn- 
Marry all splendors and wonders of sunset and morning. 

Marry all exquisite moments of passion and feeling — 
Star-crowned heavens of Life, glory on glory revealing. 

Summon the passionate years and the vanished places. 
Laughter and sunlight give to the dear dead faces; 

(Time yielding Music his dead, but, alas ! soon recalling, 
Leaving our arms vain-stretched and our tears swift 

Cease, then, from rapture of song, mortal misery veiling. 
Weave thee a girdle of Dirges, tumultuous, wailing. 

Circled by which thou shalt type the deep soul of Exist- 
Beauty at center in holy, eternal persistence. 

Sing till thy mournful music melts into mystical splen- 

Blending the chords of pain and delight into harmonies 

Waken, O songstress, enchantress, the spirit's romances. 
Mother of tremulous dreams and of beautiful fancies. 


How sweet tonight the river glides, 
With restful swell of sleeping tides, 
Beneath Diana's crescent-car ! 
Thick-gemmed with many a trembling star, 
In sighing music on she slides. 

Gray alders whisper on her sides, 
Her bosom, lovely as a bride's, 
Shows white with gleam of nenuphar, 
How sweet to-night ! 

Ah, once to slip the lore that hides 
And wander from our purblind guides 
To that young world which gleams afar. 
Whose rivers dimpling Naiads are ! 
To be a Greek, while yon moon rides — 
How sweet to-night ! 



Sweet Spring, thou comest girt with life and laughter, 
Death shrinks before the sunlight of thy glances. 
And at the music of thy Orphic harpings 
The underworld yields up its buried blossoms. 

And in our hearts thy melodies and odors 
Can wake to passioned life our olden glories. 
Thou canst relume the glazed eyes of Nature. 
O Love, why is thy light gone out forever? 



Ah, weary days, how blank and drear. 

When dust hid dust from thine embrace, 

And all the glory of the Year 

Fled with the glory from her Face, 

And memory was misery, 

And darkness fell on her and thee ! 

But with the days a second Birth 

Of Love, instinct with purer grace. 

Restores the glory to the Earth, 

The olden glory to her Face, 

And memory is harmony. 

And Peace doth rest on her and thee. 



We eat and drink and laugh and energize 
In all the meanness of our daily lives, 
And Death comes in our midst, a holy thing, 
Like sacred night adorned with moon and stars. 
And touches vulgar life with silver light. 



Forever young, forever young! 

Lo, Death hath stolen thee from Time, 

And Love hath stolen thee from Death. 

Forever thoughts of thee have clung 
Round Nature — woodland air thy breath. 
Thy voice the planetary chime. 

Forever loved, seen everywhere. 

In flowers thy lips, in stars thine eyes. 

My soul grows royal by such grief. 

Forever young and loved and fair, 

With sunbeams, brooks, and soft blue skies, 

With bud and blossom, bird and leaf. 



Light shadows fall across her grave, 
A sweet wind stirs the flowered grass, 
The song-girt branches slowly wave, 
The solemn moments softly pass. 

The afternoon draws quiet breath 
At pause between the eve and morn, 
And from the sacred place of Death 
The holy thoughts of Life are born, 

I fret not at the will of doom ; 
Her soul and mine are not apart. 
Dear violets upon her tomb, 
Ye blossom in my heart. 



Death is no kingdom dark and dreary, 
For thou art there. 
Sunnily flows the Stygian river 
Through lucent air. 

Ever with sacred joy I see thee 
And awed delight. 

What can divide us, friend and lover, 
Who in thy flight 

Madest as one the mystic regions 
Time severeth. 

Leaving a track of light refulgent 
Twixt Life and Death ! 



My feet on the ball of St. Peter's, 
My head in the radiant skies, 
I see the Eternal City 
Shrunk to an ant-heap's size ; 

Re-sucked to eternal forest, 
Absorbed in the greenness around. 
O pother of Black ants and White ants, 
Contending upon your mound ! 

The domes are dwindled to mushrooms. 
The towers are sunk to stones, 
Live Rome and its ruins are equal. 
The dog and the lion's bones. 

Is this the world's great wonder? 
To this do all roads lead ? 
Here forged the Church's thunder? 
Here cast the Church's creed ? 

O pitiful breed of mortals, 
O spawn of a teeming womb, 
What Brobdingnagian boasting. 
What Liliputian doom ! 

But sudden a thought brings comfort — 

Man's littleness thus I can scan, 

Because I am high on St. Peter's, 

Upborne by the greatness of man. 


I watch her dainty rosebud mouth, 
That trembles with the exquisite 
And wondrous tide that steals from it 
Of song, resplendent of the South ; 
While o'er her April countenance. 
The music of the quaint romance. 
The sweeter for a sense of pain, 
Sends sun and shade, and, lost in dream, 
Her sweet eyes softly flash and gleam 
With golden smiles and diamond rain. 



Silly girl ! Yet morning lies 
In the candor of your eyes, 
And you turn your creamy neck, 
Which the stray curl-shadows fleck, 
Far more wisely than you guess, 
Spite your not unconscious dress. 
In the curving of your lips 
Sages' cunning finds eclipse. 
For the gleam of laughing teeth 
Is the force that works beneath, 
And the warmth of your white hand 
Needs a God to understand. 
Yea, the stars are not so high 
As your body's mystery. 
And the sea is not so deep 
As the soul in you asleep. 



In stainless purity calm Nature lies. 

The snow that seems so chill without keeps warm 

The inward breast and beautifies the earth 

With noble floriage. Even so the soul 

In sacramental purity arrayed, 




Strange, earnest glance that boldly looks ahead, 
Illuminate with false prophetic fire, 
Unconscious of the blankness of the days 
When eyes grow dim with sudden unsought tears. 


We need not seek to know 

What deeds of evil men defile this earth, 

Supremely coarse, ineffably unclean. 

We need not mark the roar 

Of mirth obscene, it is enough to know 

That thou art pure and good. 

That thou art kind and true. 

Follow thy music, bear thy goodness high 

Through all the subterrene of human lot, 

And trust the Purpose, tho it seems so void, 

A Light to others, dark unto thyself. 



He and she met almost daily, 

Parting then to analyze 

In their diaries each the other, 

Psychologically wise. 

Now the dust is on their eyes. 



I wandered through the wintry wood, 
No buds to peep, no birds to sing; 
Sudden, amid my drearihood, 
I turned mine eyes and saw the Spring — 

'Twas you ! 

You gleamed across the snowy waste 
With dancing step and sunny hair. 
You passed me by in careless haste. 
My heart is ice, my boughs are bare — 

Adieu ! 



The sunshine road and pavement floods. 
Folk gaily come and go, 
And in my frozen soul Love buds 
At last above the snow. 

Upon the sunbeams of the Strand 
I see her image float, 
Her dancing eyes, her little hand. 
Her dainty petticoat. 

And then I see but mist above. 
Remembering forlorn, 
The sweet spring day will die ; her love 
For me will ne'er be born. 



Others, Kitty, do you wrong, 
Rating you not worth a song. 
For, said they, you do but jest 
With the hearts that love you best. 
I, poor poet, disagree: 
You were worth a song to me. 



If Love be but a bubble, 
Blown from the pipe of Life, 
That bursts and leaves but trouble 
And weariness and strife, 
Then who would cares redouble 
And leave his years as stubble 
And sorrow take to wife? 
If Love be but a bubble 
Blown from the pipe of Life. 

If Love be but a bubble 
Blown from the pipe of years, 
Its beauty is but double 
That it is built of tears. 
And for its tender trouble 
I'd leave my life as stubble 
And pluck my ripest ears, 
Tho Love be but a bubble 
Blown from the pipe of years. 



For this the ancient stars were hurled, 
And monsters mixed in oozy strife. 
These were the birth-pangs of the world, 
That Love might come to life. 



" To Heaven," " To Hell," so said the guiding fingers 
I looked to right, to left, around, above : 
The self-same path it was to which both pointed ; 
Then saw I that the road was Sexual Love. 



The torches flare, the music falls, 
The dancers circle to and fro ; 
Within her kinsmen's festive halls 
I stand, a masked and hated foe. 
I seek her ardent Southern glance, 
Her beauty burns my blood to wine — 
But to the rhythm of the dance 
My heart-strings wail : " She is not mine ; 

Ah, never mine." 

The orchard blooms, the moon is bright. 
As with sweet looks and soft replies 
The spirit of the Southern night 
Drawls up my soul through ears and eyes. 
And in my heart and in my brain 
There throbs in music argentine 
One blissful, passionate refrain, 
" She loves thee, loves thee — she is thine ; 

Forever thine." 

Within the dusky tomb I lie, 

Yet sweet the charnel-house's breath. 

For she is nigh, my love is nigh — 

Ah, God, would this indeed were death ! 

Vain wish — mad plaudits mock my ears 

And wake me from the dream divine, 

And I — ^poor mummer — through my tears 

Remember that she is not mine ; 

Ah, never mine. 


Tho thy starlike spirit shine 
O'er the earthliness of mine, 
Let Love only be my plea, 
Love me but for loving thee. 



Of Love so often did I sing 
In literary wo, 

Avengeress, you came to bring 
The cruel real blow. 

But still the Muse you can not best, 
Your rival bides her time. 
Then soothes the pain within my breast 
By putting it in rime. 



Of woman and wine, of woods and spring, 

And all fair things that be. 

The poets have sung of everything: 

What is there left for me ? 

Why, songs of thee. 



Forgive me if when lilies blow 
And lanes are all a-trill with song, 
And hedges gleam with scented snow, 
And visions fair on mortals throng — 
Forgive me, of thy gentle grace. 
If I can find 'mid scenes so choice 
No fairer vision than thy face, 
No dearer music than thy voice. 

Forgive me if when bleak rain drips. 
And mist obscures the wintry skies, 
I find June's roses on thy lips, 
June's heaven in thy radiant eyes. 
So craving skies forever blue. 
And roses ever at my door. 
Forgive me if I ask for you. 
For I love much — and more and more. 



Child or woman, as you please, 
Gravely young or gaily old, 
Mute to fire and minx to tease, 
Loving, yet how pure and cold ! 

Diana with a color-box. 
Scorning all the sex of man. 
Sweetly-glancing Paradox, 
Angel and Bohemian. 

Wild-bird caged in city grim. 
Drooping sans the fevered streets. 
Head of logic, heart of whim, 
Strong-willed, weak-willed, colds and heats. 

Box of melodies at strife, 
Pagan, Christian, humble, vain. 
Craving death — and fuller life : 
Paris — or Siena's fane. 

Purse-forgetting business man. 
Counting gain on fingers slim. 
Socialist the world to scan 
Through the tears that doubly dim. 

Rosy revolutionist. 
Preaching loud the reign of Peace, 
While her pretty lips unkist 
Wars of man and man increase. 


Raise me from the arid dust, 
Kindle faiths and dreams forgone 
Shining eyes of love and trust, 
Breast to rest a life upon I 



Rough-knobbed and gnarl'd and with muddy splashes, 

And dabs of green from the grassy clay, 

Where the garish restaurant's gas-light flashes, 

It leans in nonchalant lounging way 

Beside a delicate dream in gray. 

They look like giant at rest with doll, 

Together tired at the close of day — 

The walking-stick and the parasol. 

With night and cookery gently clashes 
That dainty sunshade, suggesting play 
Of light and shadow and drooping lashes. 
And leaves sun-glinted and ocean spray. 
And more poetical things than they. 
While of everything that \^fou zxA folic 
In reckless duet they chant the lay — 
The walking-stick and the parasol. 

The sunset's beautiful color-dashes 

Have faded out to the final ray, 

The sky that glow^ed is in cold gray ashes, 

Felicity never arrives to stay. 

But will its memory die away? 

They can not talk like your pretty Poll, 

Or else I wonder what they would say — 

The walking-stick and the parasol. 



Princess of all that is bright and gay, 
Perhaps we know, tho demure they loll, 
If they flirted under the sky of May — 
The walking-stick and the parasol. 



My darling shines, 
All lyric lines, 
And singing motions. 
With wavering gleams 
Of wistful dreams 
And dim devotions. 

Such nameless grace 
Across her face 
Evasive trembles ; 
Whate'er is fair 
In earth or air 
In her assembles. 

Her dancing eyes 
Outdo the skies 
For rays that hover ; 
Such living light 
The orbs of night 
Nor day discover. 

Thus in all things 
Her image swings, 
And sings and dances. 
Love her, have all ! 
How blest the thrall 
Who serves her glances ! 



Immortal was her soul, she said ! 

I only smiled to think of all 

The doubts by her unknown, unread. 

Who still believed in Adam's fall, 

Nor knew that good men question Paul. 

Dogmatic puss ! To settle so 

What saints and sages longed to know, 

And none had whispered from the dead! 

Immortal was her soul, she knew ! 
Rose lips exposed her ignorance 
Of any other point of view 
With such bewitching arrogance. 
Her eye shot such a spiritual glance. 
That I, half dazzled by the flash 
Of sunlight stored beneath her lash. 
Began to think that mine was too. 



Dear child, as 'mid the crowd we stand, 
Where noisy barrows shine, 
I love to feel your little hand 
Slip gently into mine. 

Then of a sudden to recall, 

As tho I saw a star, 

What is, dear child, the best of all. 

That you a woman are. 



Oh, for the simpler life, 

For tents and starry skies, 

And the dreams that brood and dance 

In Una's eyes! 

Oh for the peace of faith, 
If not in God above, 
Then at least in life and work, 
Through Una's love ! 



I would you were not pretty ! 
Blind fools will always say, 
My love is but a petty 
Desire for earthly clay. 

Your beauty but a torch is 
To show your lovelier soul. 
No empty temple's porch is 
My pilgrimage's goal ! 

Yet sans your outer graces, 
Should I have paused to find 
The inner holy places? 
The fools are not so blind I 



All day I had thought of the night, 
Of the night when she would come ; 
Her name was a pulse of delight 
At my heart, tho my lips were dumb. 

My guests poured merrily in ; 
I greeted I know not whom, 
As, framed in the friendly din, 
I stood in an empty room. 

There was many a luring face 
A painter or poet would prize ; 
I only thought of the grace 
Of her far-away haunting eyes. 

There's a rustle within the hall, 
And the long suspense is past: 
She is coming, the crown of all — 
She is coming, my own at last. 

I smile, shake her hand, and speak 
Some cold conversational word ; 
Tho I feel her breath on my cheek, 
My pulse is all unstirred. 

At her kiss my horizon gray 
Should flame as the sun-fired West ; 
Indifferent, I turn away 
And talk to another guest. 



Far better than to build the rime 
Of empty words it is to hold 
Your hand beneath a sky of gold 
At sunset in the summer-time. 

Far sweeter thus to kiss your eyes, 
And take life's fulness at the flood, 
Than, lying stranded in the mud, 
To weave phantasmal melodies. 

To do is higher than to dream, 
To feel is truer than to think, 
And wiser at your lips to drink 
Than at the pale Pierian stream. 

Yet as this lovely summer-time 
Your sweetness in my arms I hold, 
I feel my kisses growing cold. 
And all things turning into rime. 



I sent up my thoughts like roses 
To climb to the casement of Love, 
But no face ever shone in the darkness, 
No whisper e'er beckoned above. 

And now that the casement stands open. 
And now that the door stands wide, 
'Tis no longer a man, warm and breathing. 
But a shadow that flits outside. 



When you were but a dream 
Such things befell, 
So bitter, it might seem 
I lived in hell. 

But never heaven's gleam 
Quite left my cell ; 
'Twas but an evil dream 
To you to tell. 

Now that in you my dream 
Grows visible, 

I crawl from Stygian stream 
Too tired to tell. 



Two kinds of love, the one of moonlight wan, 
Fretted with fluttering fevers, querulous, 
And one that is as sunshine, sweet and plain, 
Sea-breezes keen and all the buoyant day. 



As still amid the flux of things 

And purposeless gray happenings 

Some force subsists that makes for Beauty, 

And something through the chaos sings; 

So 'mid your fevered flutterings, 

Or airy flights on proud-poised wings, 

Some wistful instinct gropes for Duty, 

And still o'er all your vagrom moods 

Love, like a clouded heaven, broods. 

Dear, trust the still, small voice ; distrust 
The fawning court of lesser selves, 
The tricksy swarm of sprites and elves. 
Informed with sly, usurping lust 
To drag the central ' you ' to dust, 
And render mute the sovereign 'must ' 
That sends them scurrying to their delves. 
Let their gay friskings serve to grace thy reign, 
But be thou Queen by work and love and pain. 



Once between us the Atlantic, 
Yet I felt your hand in mine ; 
Now I feel your hand in mine, 
Yet between us the Atlantic. 



You, whose Face should have witched a poet 
From sunless gloom to a deathless song, 
Linked to your love, to your mere mate mated, 
To one instead of the world belong. 



Quaintly she lies in the light, 
Stirless her passionate breath. 
Decked in her wedding-robes white 
I>ecked in the glory of Death, 
Lost, ever lost unto me. 

Dumbstruck in trying to speak 
Word that would make her a wife. 
Roses have fied from her cheek, 
Roses have fied from my life: 
Lost, ever lost unto me. 

Lover was I, now forlorn. 
Stony and still lieth she — 
Masters, *tis just that I mourn. 
Ask ye why weepeth thus He — 
'Lost, ever lost unto me? * 

He was to wed her to-day. 
False, she was false unto me. 
He is a villain, I say — 
Villain, but she could not see: 
Lost, ever lost unto me. 

Warning to her gave I none, 

Glad to her wedding I hied, 

Gloating o'er vengeance begun, 

Sweetening my years — ^but she died: 

Lost, ever lost unto me. 


Burning my songs, 'There's naught to follow; 
All is over for me,' I said. 
'Women are false and the world is hollow; 
Better far to be lying dead.' 

Long was the night, but the morn did follow. 
Then a bitterer truth I learnt : 
'Women are false and the world is hollow; ' 
True, most true — but my songs are burnt. 



Lately an elderly Frenchwoman 
Showed me a dress with embroidery, 
Delicate, worn by her grandmother 
Once at the Court of Napoleon. 

Instantly flashed the great Corsican 
Duskily bright on my memorj', 
Crumbled to dust with his dynasty 
Long ere the dainty embroidery. 

Also I strove to resuscitate 
All those gay splendors the grandmother 
Moved amid, but unsuccessfully, 
Knowing so little of History. 



In ancient years the chevaliers 

Rode out on schemes Quixotic, 

With hand on blade, e'er ready laid. 

To draw at deeds despotic. 

But each true knight still aids the Right, 

However cynics mock it. 

To aid Love's law we moderns draw — 

The money from our pocket. 

In early ages the peering sages 

Sought long that great tradition. 

The chymic stone, and were it known. 

It were a great magician. 

But far above, warm human Love 

Makes roses out of nettles — 

To Thought and Light and Truth and Right 

Transmutes the baser metals. 



The cry of the children is answered 

In so far as an answer may be ; 

Their laughter is heard in the woodlands 

And down by the sea. 

With all that is young they are frisking — 

The fawn and the lamb and the bee. 

They are nesting divine recollections 
For the drearisome days that shall come — 
Green pastures, sweet haystacks and roses 
Shall flash on the slum, 
Bird-music, the song of the waters. 
Shall throb in machinery's thrum. 

But the toil-wearied mothers whose foreheads 

Are aching in fetid town-air. 

Whose souls are too sad for expectance, 

Too dulled for despair, 

The saints of the needle and washtub 

Their cry — is it heard anywhere ? 



Guly, 1890.) 

Upon War's shield and shadowed by his sword, 
Behold the pigmies who dare dream to slay 
The giant, who, altho he doze to-day, 
To-morrow shall newcram his gorge abhorred. 
Long yet his blood-libation shall be poured ! 
Long yet the peoples shall acclaim his sway I 

Our earth cools faster than the ancient zest 

Of blood, the dull hereditary hate. 

The prejudices inarticulate. 

The greed and jealousy that unexprest 

Still smolder in the patriotic breast 

And must upflame in ire inveterate. 

Yet dreams are half-deeds, and this solid world 
Is built on visions ; wherefore let no scorn 
Greet those who in the midnight grope for morn. 
And dream that War's red banner shall be furled. 
And War's foul reek of smoke and blood be curled 
No more about an earth renewed, reborn. 



In him the elements are strangely blent — 
Two consciences he hath, two hearts, two souls, 
On double wrongs and errors he is bent. 
And ne'er appears except in dual roles. 

He hears both sides, but 'tis with different ears ; 
Sees both sides of the shield — with different eyes ; 
Between two Rights with nice precision steers, 
This double-headed King of Compromise. 

Not his to hold the scales of Life and Death — 
Not his, this nebulous invertebrate, 
Who heeds and scorns at once the vulgar breath, 
Nor knows the fixity which stamps the great. 

The kingly souls with instinct for the Right, 

Vibrant to conscience and her trumpet-call. 

With clarity of vision, inward light. 

And strength to follow out their thought through all. 



An Afric lion in a cage, 

Worn dumb with wo and futile rage, 

His forest eye-sight dimmed with age, 

Grim couchant on his balcony. 
He turns his back to sun and sea. 
And scowls upon humanity. 

Swift thunder past his prison doors 
To Monte Carlo's gala shores 
The motors of his conquerors. 

The flaunting females throned elate 

Make bitterer his kindred's fate, 

He blinks and mourns his buried mate. 

Oom Paul, believing over-much. 
Your faith in God and man was such 
You dared to put it to the touch ! 

And so you finish far from home. 
Your Temple split from floor to dome, 
Your Empire smashed like yon white foam. 

But yet you chew no novel crust — 

Who has not staked his dreams? What trust 

Has Fate not smitten to the dust? 


One trusts in Love. Friend, keep aloof ! 
Of moonbeams weave both warp and woof: 
Put nothing to the solid proof. 

One trusts in Fame. Already surge 
Oblivion's waters. What! Emerge? 
Your juniors chant your funeral dirge. 

One trusts in Truth. Aye, shout her praise, 
But march not to her Marseillaise — 
A crown of thorns her only bays ! 

One trusts in Justice. Cursed Jew 
To put our France in such a stew ! 
Your champion chokes — and so may you ! 

Take, Paul, a fellow exile's hand, 

I, too, have lost my fairyland, 

I, too, have waked — to understand. 



(Prefaced to his edition of " Barlaam and Josaphat," 

O friend, who sittest young yet wise 
Beneath the Bo-tree's shade, 
Confronting life with kindly eyes, 
A scholar unafraid 

To follow thought to any sea 
Or back to any fount, 
Tis modern morals that to me 
From thy excursions mount. 

Was Barlaam one with Josaphat, 
And Buddha likewise each? 
What better parable than that 
The unity to preach — 

The simple brotherhood of souls 
That seek the highest good ; 
He who in kingly chariot rolls, 
Or wears the hermit's hood ! 

The Church mistook? These heathens once 
Among her saints to range ! 
That deed of some diviner dunce 
Our wisdom would not change. 

For Culture's Pantheon they grace 

In catholic array. 

Each Saint hath had his hour and place, 

But now 'tis All Saints' Day. 



On earth he long had bloomed 
With bland and airy phrases. 
To Hell his soul was doomed — 
At once he sang its praises. 

" Such subtle sinuous flare, 
Such restful red unrest, 
Half shadow and half glare, 
Like Rembrandt at his rest." 

The imps heaped high the coal. 
The bellows 'gan to blow. 
Cried out the burning soul : 
" Quite Fra Angelico. 

" What decorative grace 
The flames that twist and twine ! 
How they light the Devil's face 
And make it all divine ! 

" What life-enhancing zest 
In every living curve, 

golden urns o' the blest, 

1 thrill in every nerve ! 

" And while the light is ruddy, 
And while my zeal is hot, 
Oh what a chance to study 
My Dante on the spot ! " 

Then Satan grimly swore : 
I damn you up to heaven, 
Where you'll find life a bore. 
And a day as long as seven. 

" Where the souls sit round and purr 
O'er each soporific blessing. 
Where the music is amateur. 
And the art is life-depressing." 



First Self: Well, alter ego. Time has trudged 

Once more his annual circuit, neighbor. 

Seco7td Self: And once again, friend, we're adjudged 
Twelve months' hard labor. 

First Self: 
Second Self: 
First Self: 

Second Self' 

First Self: 

Second Self: 

First Self: 
Second Self: 

First Self: 

With Death as an alternative. 

To Mercy's side there's some inclining. 

Then why continue we to live, 

Tho always whining? 

Because we've got so used to both ! 
To live and whine preceded long-clothes. 
For suicide mankind is loth : 
'Tis thought a wrong close. 

Bah ! Sift it in impartial sieve 

Why men such pains themselves are 

I know not. Most men seem to live 
To get a living. 

Upon itself this answer twists. 

The question still remains a vexed one. 

Each generation but exists 

To get the next one. 

Pray drop this tone of de'il-may-care, 
And please return a serious answer 
To why the nations keep up their 
Eternal dance, sir.? 

Second Self: We live to fight, the preachers cry, 
The evil in us — brief, the Devil. 
Our bodies battle-fields supply 
For contests civil. 

First Self: Let canting preachers think me bold, 
I can't accept their explanation 
That we exist to give the Old 
'Un occupation. 

Second Self: Nor I. We know we live. That's sure. 
With this one fact assertion's pow'r ends, 
One theory tho I think secure — 
*Tis not for our ends. 

First Self: The " why " can not be understood 

Except by transient gleams and flashes. 
So let's muse less and do more good 
Before we're ashes. 

For lo ! night comes when none can work. 
Work while 'tis day, my puling brother. 
" Why do we live ? " let's henceforth shirk. 
Second Self: Well, ask another. 



They called him Prophet, Seer, and Sage, 
The Light, the Teacher of the Age. 

Obscure too long, he shone at length : 
The millions leaned upon his strength. 

One summer morn self-slain he died. 
They found this Message at his side : 

" I die because my soul is bare 
Of faith and all except despair." 



The sunbeams streamed without, 
The wind-tossed boughs made riot ; 
A man on boards laid out 
Reposed in waxen quiet. 

A poet paused to view 
The corpse, and wept, poor poet: 
" I am more dead than you. 
Because, alas, I know it ! " 



My mind is as a sea of shudd'ring pines 

At thick o' night when all's asleep but wind — 

Wind blindly groping in the heavy darkness — 

And formless shapes crowd round their mother Night, 

And all the moonless, starless horror seems 

Of old and changeless, hopeless, everlasting. 


I feel the breath of midnight. 
As of some uncouth creature, panting quick 
At tension for a spring, awaiting which 
I live but in the pulses of my heart. 


And I looked up and lo! the Night was dead, 

Its myriad eyes closed, 

Its breath still. 

And the dull, cloudy, shroud 

Hung movelessly around it. 

I was alive, but the Night was dead. 

I could not die with the tired Night. 



Alone until I die — alone, alone, 

Abhorring mine own self and other men. 

The sunlight casts Death's shadow and not mine; 

With Death's dread shadow ever do I walk. 

I see him not but feel his icy air. 
Sometimes his sobs do hurtle in mine ear, 
His heart doth break for anguish of his deeds. 



The man peers silently into the dim, 
Blank eyes of the dead universe with tears, 
Because there is no sign shown unto him 
Save memories of their smile in childish years. 



And dead men singing 

Rowed o'er the ferry, 

And the moonlight glistened 

On faces merry. 

And in a twinkling 

The rowers vanished, 

The water plashless, 

The voices banished. 

But the oaks kept glancing, 

And the boat advancing. 



O blessed Christ, that foundest death 
When life was fire and tears, 
Not drawing on a sluggish breath 
Through apathetic years ! 

Still, still about Thy forehead gleams 
The light we know Thee by. 
O blessed Christ, to die for dreams, 
Nor know that dreams would die ! 


»* >- Jl 


O God, if Thou indeed didst take 
Our feeble human form, 
A human heart to ache and break, 
A brow to meet the storm. 

If Thou indeed hast drunk our cup, 
And known the doom of Right, 
A gentler God went surely up 
To reassume His might. 



Not hence, O Earth, the saddest tears we weep — 
That we are puny creatures of thy crust, 
And swift revert to our parental dust, 
Which breeds from e'en the ashes of our sleep; 
Nor that the span of time 'tis ours to creep 
Above our graves is darkened by distrust 
And marred by sordid cares and pangs unjust, 
Not from our pain the deepest tears upleap. 

But hence our tears — that through the mists of youth 
There gleams a golden world of miracle 
Which, even when its glamour fades and ruth 
Has dispossessed our sense that all is well. 
Still stirs by lovely face or lofty truth 
Some dream of Beauty unpossessable. 



A rich, voluptuous languor of dim pain, 
A dreamy sense of passionate regret, 
Delicious tears and some sweet, sad refrain, 
Some throbbing, vague, and tender canzonet, 
That mourns for life so real and so vain. 
Wherein we glory while our eyes are wet. 



Soft, lambent rain that dims the starlit air, 
A trembling, misty gleam from twinkling lights; 
A touch of freshness, vague and cool and fair, 
Imblent with that vast sadness which is Night's: 
Stern London's face, suffused with tender tears. 
As if with thought of all the vanished years. 



I craved for flash of eye and sword, 
I dreamt of love and glory, 
And Fate — who sends dreams their award- 
Unfolds like changeless coils of cord 
Life's long, slow, sordid story. 



No toil rd count, no theft of time. 
No wound unstanched, no sin unshriven. 
If only from the sweat and slime 
Some winged lyric rose to heaven. 

But ah, for me no song redeems. 

My cross a fardel but of fi^gots ; 

My tears have caught no rainbow gleams, 

And in the slime, lo ! eyeless maggots ! 



When I and my cynical note are dead, 

Dead as my heart is now, 

And sneer-writhen lips shall their last have said, 

Their au diable of wearihead. 

Then fresh young life shall aspire and vow, 

And light shall gleam in eye and brow. 

And joy upleap and passion burn, 

Tho my heart of dust to the dust return. 

When I and my cry of revolt are dead. 

Dead as my palsied brain. 

My wisdom must to the winds be shed, 

I die — as I lived — in vain. 

Fresh hearts shall swell with the same sweet lies. 

Old visions be mirrored in youthful eyes, 

The sun shall kindle the morning sea. 

When God's gag lies on the mouth of me. 



The sky is gray with rain that will not fall, 
The clayey paths are oozing ghostly mist. 
Reeking with sadness immemorial, 
The gray earth saps the courage to exist. 

Poor tropic creatures, penned in northern land, 
I, too, desire the sun and am a slave. 
My heart is with you, and I understand 
The lion turning in his living grave. 



Despair of all, and hope for none ! 
We are unclean beneath the sun. 
Foul vapors cling to all that's high, 
Notes jar in every harmony. 
We tame our flights to lower goals, 
Mean deeds defile the purest souls. 
Trust nothing — this alone is sure : 
We pass, and nothing will endure. 

For all men hope, despair of none ! 
Foul vapors flee, the golden sun 
The darkest puddles draws on high 
To paint the sky with harmony. 
So Love shall lift to higher goals 
The lowest lives, the darkest souls. 
Rejoice we then, of one thing sure : 
We pass, but deeds of love endure. 



Who armed us with the righteous meting-rod 
By which our trust in heavenly love g^ows dim? 
The fact that you and I despair of God 
Is common ground for hope and faith in Him. 



Heart-sick I step from out the dusky hall . . . 
God ! What a burst of brightness all adorning ! 
Blue, frosty sky, still streets grown magical 
Beneath the sacred splendor of the morning. 

Strange music swells, dead faces flash and gleam, 
God's face resurges in the luminous glory. 
God's love a moment seems no hopeless dream. 
Nor Immortality an old wives' story. 



Sudden amid the slush and rain, 
I know not how, I know not why, 
A rose unfolds within my brain. 
And all the world is at July. 

A trumpet sounds, green surges splash. 
And daffodillies dance i' the sun; 
Through tears fair pictures flit and flash 
Upon the City's background dun. 

Women are true and men are good, 
Concord sleeps at the heart of strife. 
How sweet is human brotherhood. 
And all the common daily life 1 



Dreamy sound of rain at dying summer eve, 
Dewy sight of grass at living summer morn, 
Drowsy scent of rose at sleeping summer noon. 
Ye to me are sweet as life, as death forlorn. 

Through my tears I feel your loveliness divine, 
For your freshness or your sweetness seems to blend 
With diviner dawns and sunsets soul-create. 
Unalloyed with our inevitable end. 



" Immortal as the Gods ! " But they 
Half grudge the boon they share and give. 
" I shall not wholly die," you say, 
But neither did I wholly live. 



O come, thou starry-eyed rich summer night 
Voluptuous, and rain soft feathery rest 
Upon the furrowed summits of the hills. 
And fill the air with delicate scents and sounds, 
Flying with olden mem Vies in their train. 
So the sad earth shall tremble passionate 
Under the melting kisses of the moon. 
And, glad as fair, send up her fragrant soul 
In silvern swoon of languishing delight. 



No care for beauty, joy in skies or woods 
That lived in silence round me, but soft touch 
Of Death's persuasive hand. I was so young, 
My watch-dog Reason kept so fierce a ward 
Against the thieves and beggars of the heart, 
The hungry dreams, the faiths that cry for food. 
The desp'rate hopes that force all Logic's locks. 
(Ah me, were not Unreason wiser far?) 

Methought experience was a scroll unrolled. 
And Life was but rethumbing it till Death. 
For I had flown through every zone of Thought 
And reached the frigid shores of nothingness. 
And overbrooding dusk, where 's no dream 
Of beauty, joy in woods or skies, but touch 
Of Death's persuasive hand. Lo, there I dwelt 
How long I know not but in Polar night. 

At last a shiver in the sleeping leaves 
That lived in silence round me, purple light. 
Sweet tremors in the air, vague pulsing sounds. 
Stirrings and echoes of divine delight. 
Bursts of bird-music, flush of panting souls 
Of roses, leapings of the dancing heart. 
And life a song, an empyrean chant 
Of sunrise, splendor, glory, beauty, force. 
Inwove with tender dreams and blown upon 
By breath of Passion from the centuries, 
Immortal airs from realms of old Romance, 
And life reborn at radiant dawn of Love. 



So Might IS Right, you say; I fight iir vain ••* *•••'*• • "' 
To make a transcendental justice reign. 
Works thus the world? No more, my soul, be dumb, 
For might is right until a mightier come. 



• 0.*y8uth 61 thg-tvoirld, come again 
And exchange our sluggish sigh 
For the rage of a wild white main 
That pants and tugs at its chain, 
And leaps at the throat of the sky. 



The solar system turns without thine aid. 

Live, die ! The universe is not afraid. 

What is, is right ! If aught seems wrong below, 

Then wrong it is — of thee to leave it so. 

Then wrong it first becomes for human thought, 

Which else would die of dieting on naught. 

Tied down by race and sex and creed and station, 

Go, learn to find thy strength in limitation, 

To do the little good that comes to hand. 

Content to love and not to understand ; 

Faithful to friends and country, work and dreams, 

Knowing the Real is the thing that seems. 

While reverencing every nobleness. 

In whatsoever tongue, or shape, or dress, 

Speak out the word that to thy soul seems right. 

Strike out thy path by individual light; 

'Tis contradictory rays that give the white. 



O winged poem that unsought 
Hast broke the shell of worldly thought, 
Go — fashioned perfect at thy birth, 
Unlike the nestlings of the earth — 
Forth-fluttering go with swelling throat. 
On waves of thine own music float 
To sunless regions, there to rest 
And nestle in Man's icy breast. 
And warm it with celestial fire, 
And wake his frozen heart's desire 
For Love and Beauty, Good and Truth, 
And all the sacred dreams of Youth. 

Dear offspring of the wedded might 
Of human sorrow and delight, 
Ere thou couldst soar on Helicon, 
To thy creation there had gone 
My spirit's every element 
With every sensuous image blent. 

Fair Nature's scents and sounds and sights. 

The magic of her days and nights, 

Her harmonies of hue and form. 

Her fiery rhapsodies of storm, 

The fragrant freshness of her springs, 

Her warm, voluptuous blossomings. 

The wail of orphan winds forlorn, 

The purple pageantry of morn, 

The rich-stained windows of the West, 
The tossing ocean's snowy crest, 
The radiance of Woman's eyes 
Where Being's secret lives and dies. 
Dim haunting peals of plaintive rimes 
Like sunken cities' far-off chimes. 
With solemn organ-rolls and swells 
Of long sonorous syllables. 

Glad memories with gray alloyed. 

All I have suffered or enjoyed. 

From splendors of my childhood's dawn 

With seraph-shapes by Fancy drawn. 

To glooms and grandeurs of the man 

Astray in paths without a plan ; 

My lusts, my loves, my hates, my fears. 

My sighs and laughter, smiles and tears, 

In thee, in thee they live once more. 

But strangely nobler than before. 

For thou art touched with sacred gleams, 

The essence of divinest dreams, 

The mystic flash that flees control. 

The life of life, the soul of soul. 

And as a mother dimly feels, 

Whilst down her cheek soft moisture steals, 

Her infant moving in her womb. 

So I amid Life's fret and fume 

Have joyed to feel thy Presence sweet. 

Full knowing thou, yet incomplete, 


Must shape thyself to symmetry 
Before thou couldst be born to me — 
Have felt the chords of bliss and pain 
Vibrating vaguely in my brain 
With mystic, mournful melody 
Far sweeter than all minstrelsy 
Wherewith an earthly artist stirs 
Low-breathing lutes and dulcimers. 

Go, lyric bird ! Thy lovely song 
Unfaltering through Time prolong. 

Yet, songster mine, I crave for thee 
No empty immortality, 
That thou within a gilded cage 
Make music for a pleasured age. 
Sing on till Love and Truth be dead, 
Sing on till Innocence be fled; 
Then share of fairer things the lot : 
Die, perish, vanish, be forgot. 



(Sea of Marmora, 1897.) 

A scarlet glory burned fantastically splendid 

In the sky of dawn, 

Like a vision of the Apocalypse. 

The sea stretched blue and stainless, 

The wind blew fresh across the great spaces. 

The white ship glided across the morning waters 

Like a living thing rejoicing in its grace. 

A sense of largeness, freedom, purity, infinity. 

Breathed from all things. 

And, huddled like animals in the hold of the ship, 

And packed on the fore-deck, 

And swarming on the hatches, 

And coiled in the ropes. 

And seething beneath the awnings. 

Hundreds and hundreds of Greek refugees 

In their grimy clothes 

Lay or sat or crouched. 

And the miasma of their breathing 
And of the odors of the night 
Rose toward the radiant 
And impassive heaven. 



(Smyrna Harbor.) 

The stars stole out over the sea, 

And the ghostly moon deepened to a silver crescent, 

And the crimson ardors of sunset died lingeringly 

In brooding haze of tender green and gold, 

And the hills faded into dimness and dream. 

And amid the velvet darkness 

And soft, scented airs 

Of the spring night 

A myriad gleams twinkled: 

The lights of the town answering the far-sprinkled 

From as mysterious blackness, 

The shadowy shipping scintillating with points of fire. 
That the dark water 
Gave back quivering, 
The lights on the terraced hills climbing to meet the 

Till the far-spreading night palpitated as with fallen 

That had netted themselves in rigging 
And dipped themselves in ocean 
And found a home for their shining in the folds of the 


And in the great ship anchored in the quiet bay. 

The sounds of chatter and scuffle, 

Of Greek songs and Arab prayers, 

Fell fainter and fainter, 

Till the last wakeful occupant of the swarming steerage 

Passed from the sense of his discomfort and his sorrows 

Into the silence and peace 

Of the many twinkling night. 



To sea-sick souls on board our storm-tossed day 

A fellow passenger presents his play. 

'Tis not that he aspires with midnight oil 

To lull the seas that seethe, the waves that boil ; 

Enough if for a space he turn your minds 

From thoughts of shipwreck and the shrieking winds. 

For 'tho 'twixt Heaven and Hell our bark be cast, 

The Comic Muse bestrides the giddy mast, 

Watches the gale, a twinkle in her eye. 

Assured, whatever befall, not she will die. 

Nor howso bound, to whatsoever port. 

Shall mortals fail of antics for her sport. 

Dost dream their sainthood would erase her grin, 

Tho Politicians brought Millennium in ? 

Till tired Time has dropped his blunted sickle 

Their jests shall sadden and their wisdoms tickle. 

Too long, too long she's eyed the human show 

To look for perfect creatures here below. 

Rome, Athens, Paris, London, she has watched. 

And always known the human being botched. 

However great and good and wise and clever, 

Yet flesh and blood is flesh and blood forever. 

Diversely mad, men variously rave. 

But sleep alike in cradle, bed, and grave. 

And so the Comic Muse finds no attraction 

In fad or ism, party creed or faction; 

She's lost her faith in all except Reaction. 

She understands the failure of success, 

And disbelieves in Progress by Express, 
And Revolution — christened not in vain, 
For the old thing comes always round again. 

And yet she is not all malicious sneer. 
Her tricksiest smile is tempered by a tear, 
Making a Rainbow o'er our ruined earth. 
And promising, as at the Rainbow's birth. 
That all things shall continue — sun and rain, 
Seed-time and harvest, death and love and pain. 
So spite the croakers or the rhapsodists 
Whose promised land is veiled in mellow mists, 
'Tis Humor's rainbow spans our mortal life. 
Arching the gloom, enlightening the strife, 
A pledge, tho darkness smite our wintry sphere, 
That sun and moon are dead we need not fear. 
Nor be, tho earth's foundations shake, afraid 
The songs of birds shall fail or flowers fade, 
Or be forgot the way of man with maid. 



Behold, O friends, who stern in judgment sit, 

A hidden world the footlights ne'er have lit: 

A world whose day and night, whose sun and shade. 

By spinning round the ancient Law are made ; 

Whose springs and winters take — whate'er the clime- 

From old Jerusalem their changeless time. 

Still in God's love the chosen people basks. 

But ah, what tragic price Jehovah asks ! 

How strange a miracle this deathless life, 

Ay with itself and all the world at strife — 

This life that links us to the purple past 

Of Babylon and Egypt, all the vast 

Enchantment of the ancient Orient, 

And yet with London and New York is blent; 

The life that lives, tho Greece and Rome are dust, 

And Spain's inquisitorial racks are rust; 

And tho so faded from the ancient glory. 

When Kings and Prophets shone in Israel's story. 

Is brightening once again, yet who shall say 

With light of Eastern or of Western day? 

Our drama shows a phase transitional, 

Young love at war with ancient ritual — 

How dead laws living, loving hearts may fetter. 

The contest of the Spirit and the Letter. 

Yet noble, too, that kissing of the rod. 

That stern obedience to the word of God, 

In godless days when sweated Hebrews scout 

The faith their sunless lives are dark without. 

But do not deem the Ghetto is all gloom ! 
The Comic Spirit mocks the ages' doom, 
And weaves athwart the woof of tragic drama 
The humors of the human panorama. 
The poet vaunts, the hypocrite goes supple, 
The marriage-broker mates the bashful couple, 
The peddler cries his wares, the player aces. 
Saint jostles sinner, fun with wisdom paces, 
The beggars prosper and the babes increase, 
And over all the Sabbath whispers, " Peace ! " 



(After Burns.) 

" Come^ my beloved y to meet the Bride ; the Face of the 
Sabbath let us welcomed 

Sweet Sabbath-Bride, the Hebrew's theme of praise, 

Celestial maiden with the starry eyes, 

Around thine head a sacred nimbus plays, 

Thy smile is soft as lucent summer skies. 

Before thy purity all evil dies. 

In wedding-robe of stainless sunshine drest, 

Thou dawnest on Life's darkness and it dies; 

Thy bridal-wreath is lilies Heaven-blest, 

Thy dowry Peace and Love and Holiness and Rest. 

For in thy Presence he forgets a while 

The gloom and discord of man's mortal years, 

To seek the Light that streameth from thy Face, 

To list thy tender lullaby, which cheers 

His soul and lies like music on his ears. 

His very sorrows with soft splendor shine. 

Transfigured by a mist of sacred tears ; 

He drinks thy gently offered Anodyne, 

And feels himself absorbed into the Peace divine. 

The Father from the Synagog returns 

(A singing-bird is nestling at his heart,) 

And from without the festive light discerns 

Which tells his faithful wife has done her part 

To welcome Sabbath with domestic art. 

He enters and perceives the picture true, 

And tears unbidden from his eyelids start, 

As Paradise thus opens on his view. 

And then he smiles and thanks his God he is a Jew. 

For " Friday-night " is written on his home 
In fair, white characters; his wife has spread 
The snowy Sabbath-cloth ; the Hebrew tome, 
The flask and cup are at the table's head, 
There's Sabbath magic in the very bread. 
And royal fare the humble dishes seem ; 
A holy light the Sabbath candles shed. 
Around his children's shining faces beam, 
He feels the strife of every day a far-off dream. 

His buxom wife he kisses, then he lays 
Upon each child's young head two loving hands 
Of benediction, so in after-days. 
When they shall be afar in other lands. 
They shall be knit to God and home by bands 
Of sacred memory. And then he makes 
The blessing o'er the wine, and while each stands. 
The quaintly convoluted bread he breaks. 
Which tastes to all to-night more sweet than honeyed 

And now they eat the Sabbath meal with laugh 
And jest and gossip till all fun must cease. 
While Father chants the Grace, all singing half, 
And then the Sabbath hymns of Love and Peace 

And Hope from alien lands to find release. 
No evil can this night its head uprear, 
Earth's joys loom larger and its ills decrease; 
To-night of ghosts the youngest has no fear — 
Does not his guardian Sabbath Angel hover near? 

So in a thousand squalid Ghettos penned, 

Engirt yet undismayed by perils vast, 

The Jew in hymns that marked his faith would spend 

This night and dream of all his glorious Past 

And wait the splendors by his seers forecast. 

And so while medieval creeds at strife 

With nature die, the Jew's ideals last, 

The simple love of home and child and wife. 

The sweet humanities which make our higher life. 



Prosaic miles of streets stretch all around 
Astir with restless, hurried life and spanned 
By arches that with thundVous trains resound, 
And throbbing wires that galvanize the land; 
Gin-palaces in tawdry splendor stand ; 
The newsboys shriek of mangled bodies found ; 
The last burlesque is playing in the Strand — 
In modern prose all poetry seems drowned. 

Yet in ten thousand homes this April night 
An ancient People celebrates its birth 
To Freedom, with a reverential mirth, 
With customs quaint and many a hoaiy rite. 
Waiting until, its tarnished glories bright, 
, Its God shall be the God of all the earth. 



(From the Hebrew of Elchanan ben Isaac, an English 
Jew of the twelfth century, preserving the acrostic of 
the author's name.) 

-5'rst radiant the Bride adored, 
On whom rich wedding-gifts are poured, 
She weeps, sore wounded, overthrown. 
Exiled and outcast, shunned and lone. 

Zaid all aside her garments fair, 
The pledges of a bond divine, 
A wandering beggar-woman's wear 
Is hers in lieu of raiment fine. 

Chanted hath been in every land 
The beauty of her crown and zone ; 
Now doomed, dethroned, she maketh moan, 
Bemocked — a byword — cursed and banned. 

AN airy, joyous step was hers 
Beneath Thy wing. But now she crawls 
Along and mourns her sons and errs 
At every step, and, worn out, falls. 

ANA yet to Thee she clingeth tight. 

Vain, vain to her man's mortal might 

Which in a breath to naught is hurled, 

Thy smile alone makes up her world. 

THE JEWS OF ENGLAND (1290-1902) 

An Edward's England spat us out — a band 

Foredoomed to redden Vistula or Rhine, 

And leaflike toss with every wind malign. 

All mocked the faith they could not understand. 

Six centuries have passed. The yellow brand 

On shoulder nor on soul has left a sign 

And on our brows must Edward's England twine 

Her civic laurels with an equal hand. 

Thick-clustered stars of fierce supremacy 
Upon the martial breast of England glance ! 
She seems of War the very Deity. 
Could aught remain her glory to enhance? 
Yea, for I count her noblest victory 
Her triumph o'er her own intolerance. 



There the Emperor's daughter 

Lay agleam in the water, 


And its breast to her breast 

Lay in tremulous rest, 


From her bath she arose 

Pure and white as the snows, 


Coral only at lips 

And at sweet finger-tips, 


In the pride of her race 

As a sword shone her face, 


And her lids were steel bows. 

But her mouth was a rose, 


1 20 


(From the Hebrew of Imber.) 


" Like the crash of the thunder 

Which splitteth asunder 

The flame of the cloud, 

On our ears ever falling, 

A voice is heard calling 

From Zion aloud : 

' Let your spirits' desires 

For the land of your sires 

Eternally burn. 

From the foe to deliver 

Our own holy river, 

To Jordan return.' 

Where the soft, flowing stream 

Murmurs low as in dream. 

There set we our watch. 

Our watchword 'The sword 

Of our land and our Lord — ' 

By Jordan there set we our watch. 


" Rest in peace, loved land. 
For we rest not, but stand, 
Off shaken our sloth. 
When the bolts of war rattle 

To shirk not the battle, 

We make thee our oath. 

As we hope for a Heaven, 

Thy chains shall be riven, 

Thine ensign unfurled. 

And in pride of our race 

We will fearlessly face 

The might of the world. 

When our trumpet is blown 

And our standard is flown, 

Then set we our watch. 

Our watchword, *The sword 

Of our land and our Lord — ' 

By Jordan then set we our watch. 


" Yea, as long as there be 
Birds in air, fish in sea. 
And blood in our veins ; 
And the lions in might, 
Leaping down from the height. 
Shake, roaring, their manes ; 
And the dew nightly laves 
The forgotten old graves 
Where Judah's sires sleep. 
We swear, who are living, 
To rest not in striving, 
To pause not to weep. 
Let the trumpet be blown 
Let the standard be flown. 

Now set we our watch. 
Our watchword, *The sword 
Of our land and our Lord ' — 
In Jordan now set we our watch." 



I saw a people rise before the sun, 

A noble people scattered through the lands, 

To be a blessing to the nations, spread 

Wherever mortals make their home ; without 

A common soil and air, 'neath alien skies, 

But One in blood and thought and life and law. 

And One in righteousness and love, a race 

That, permeating, purified the world — 

A pure fresh current in a brackish sea, 

A cooling wind across the fevered sand, 

A music in the wrangling market-place ; 

For wheresoe'er a Jew dwelt, there dwelt Truth, 

And wheresoe'er a Jew was there was Light, 

And wheresoe'er a Jew went there went Love. 

This people saw I shake off sleep, ere flamed 

The sunrise of Atonement Day and haste, 

The rich and poor alike, the old and young. 

Each from his house unto the House of God, 

The whole race closelier knit that day by one 

Electric thought that flashed through all the world. 

And there from dawn to sunset, and beyond, 

They prayed, and wept, and fasted for their few 

Backslidings from the perfect way ; for they 

Did Justice and loved Mercy, and with God 

Walked humbly; Pride and Scorn they knew not; 


Of Gold or Power darkened not their souls ; 

The faces of the poor they did not grind. 

But lived as Man with Man ; yet all the day 

In self-abasement did they pray and fast. 

The ancient tongue of patriarchs and seers, 

A golden link that bound them to the Past, 

Was theirs ; as woven by their saints 

And rabbis into wondrous songs of praise 

And sorrow; sad, remorseful strains, and sweet, 

Soft, magic words of comfort. As they prayed. 

They meditated on the words they spake. 

And thought of those who wrote them — royal souls 

In whom the love of Zion flamed; poets clad 

Not in the purple, sages scorning not 

The cobbler's bench ; and then they mused on all 

The petty yet not unheroic lives 

Of those who, spite of daily scorn, in face 

Of sensual baits, kept fast the marriage-vows 

Which they in youth had pledged their Bride, the Law, 

Whom they had taken to their hearths ; no spirit 

Austere and mystic, cold and far away. 

But human-eyed, for mortal needs create. 

Who linked her glory with their daily lives. 

Bringing a dowry not unblent with tears — 

A marriage made in Heaven to hallow Earth. 

They thought of countless martyrs scorning life 

Weighed 'gainst their creed; poor, simple workmen 

Imperial by their empery of pain ; 
Who clomb the throne of fire and draped themselves 
In majesty of flame, and haughtily. 
As king for king awaited Death's approach. 
The inspiration of such lives as these 
Was on the worshipers ; the stormy passion 

Of their old, rugged prophets filled their hearts 

With yearning, aspiration infinite, 

Submerging puny fears about themselves 

Their individual fates in either world, 

In one vast consciousness of Destiny. 

For other Faiths, like glowworms glittering. 

Had come to lift the darkness ; and were dark. 

And*other Races, splendid in their might, 

Had flashed upon the darkness and were gone. 

But they had stood ; a Tower all the waves 

Of all the seas confederate could not shake ; 

And in the Tower a perpetual light 

Burned, an eternal witness to the Hand 

That lit it. So all day they prayed and wept . 

And fasted. And the sun went down, and night 

Came on ; and twilight filled the House of God, 

And the gray dusk seemed filled with floating shapes 

Of prophets and of martyrs lifting hands 

Of benediction. Then a mighty voice 

Arose and swelled, and all the bent forms swayed. 

As when a wind roars, shaking all the trees 

In some dim forest, and from every throat 

Went up with iteration passionate 

The watchword of the Host of Israel, 

" The Lord our God is one ! The Lord is God ! 

The Lord is God ! " And suddenly there came 

An awful silence. Then the trumpet's sound 

Thrilled. . . . 

And I awokCy for lo ! it was a dream. 



Lovely grapes and apples, 
And such pretty flowers, 
Blooming in the Succah^ 
That in the back-yard towers. 

Green leaves for the ceiling 
Sift the sun and shade 
To a pretty pattern. 
As in forest glade. 

Cool retreat and dainty 
For a little child, 
Toddling in, by prospect 
Of its joys beguiled. 

Round he casts his blue eyes. 
Stretches hand in haste ; 
Darling baby, all this 
Just is to his taste. 

But his eyes brim over 
Soon with sudden tears. 
Ah, he learns the lesson 
Of the coming years. 

For the fruit is gilded 

And the flowers are wax. 

Life's a pretty vision. 

Only truth it lacks, 


(" By a coincidence the orthcxiox Jew will begin the 
twentieth century with a fast in commemoration of the 
beginning of the siege of ]erus3\em." ^/ewtsA Chroni- 

A whit long-spun, O Lord, the epic play, 

" The Wandering Jew " in nineteen hundred acts, 

Too dizzying with whirligig of facts ; 

We relish briefer tragedies to-day. 

Yet less the bloody episodes dismay 

With sense of doom and void prophetic pacts. 

And less the Ghetto-gloom the heart contracts 

Than this gay ending of the weary way. 

This transformation scene where hero-saint 
Gives place to prancing clown and pantaloon, 
And Comus crews in masquerading paint, 
No more for Zion crying — but the moon. 
Messiah's heart itself will surely faint. 
How rally these? With Shofar or bassoon? 



Methought on two Jews meeting I did chance — 
One old, stern-eyed, deep-browed ; yet garlanded 
With living light of love around his head ; 
The other young, with sweet, seraphic glance. 
Round them went on the Town's Satanic dance. 
Hunger a-piping while at heart he bled. 
Salom Aleikhem mournfully each said, 
Nor eyed the other straight, but looked askance. 

Sudden from Church outrolled an organ hymn, 
From Synagog a loudly chanted air. 
Each with its Prophet's high acclaim instinct. 
Then for the first time met their eyes swift-linked 
In one strange, silent, piteous gaze, and dim 
With bitter tears of agonized despair. 



Hear, O Israel, Jehovah, the Lord our God is One, 
But we, Jehovah His people, are dual and so undone. 

Slaves in eternal Egypts, baking their strawless bricks, 
At ease in successive Zions, prating their politics; 

Rotting in sunlit Rumania, pigging in Russian pale. 
Driving in Park, Bois, and Prater, clinging to F'ashion's 

Reeling before every rowdy, sore with a hundred stings. 
Clothed in fine linen and purple, loved at the courts of 

Faithful friends to our foemen, slaves to a scornful 

The only Christians in Europe, turning the other 


Priests of the household altar, blessing the bread and 

Lords of the hells of Gomorrah, licensed keepers of 

swine ; 

Coughing o'er clattering treadles, saintly and underpaid. 

Ousting the rough from Whitechapel — by learning the 

hooligan's trade; 

Pious, fanatical zealots, throttled by Talmud-coil, 
Impious, lecherous skeptics, cynical stalkers of spoil ; 

Wedded 'neath Hebrew awning, buried 'neath Hebrew 

Between not a dream of duty, never a glimpse of God ; 

Risking our lives for our countries, loving our nations' 

Hounded therefrom in repayment, hugging our bloody 


Blarneying, shivering, crawling, taking all colors and 

Lying a fox in the covert, leaping an ape in the sun. 

Tantalus-Proteus of Peoples, security comes from 

within ; 
Where is the lion of Judah? Wearing an ass's skin ! 

Hear, O Israel, Jehovah, the Lord our God is One, 
But we, Jehovah His people, are dual and so undone. 



" Destroying and making alive, and causing salvation 
to spring ior>^y ^Jewish Prayer-Book. 

I sing the uplift and the upwelling, 

I sing the yearning toward the sun, 

And the blind sea that lifts white hands of prayer. 

I sing the wild battle-cry of warriors 

And the sweet whispers of lovers. 

The dear word of the hearth and the altar. 

Aspiration, Inspiration, Compensation, 


The hint of beauty behind the turbid cities, 
The eternal laws that cleanse and cancel. 
The pity through the savagery of nature, 
The love atoning for the brothels, 
The Master-Artist behind his tragedies, 
Creator, Destroyer, Purifier, Avenger, 


Come into the circle of Love and Justice, 

Come into the brotherhood of Pity, 

Of Holiness and Health I 

Strike out glad limbs upon the sunny waters 

Or be dragged down amid the rotting weeds. 

The festering bodies. 

Save thy soul from sandy barrenness. 

Let it blossom with roses and gleam with the living 


Blame not, nor reason of your Past, 

Nor explain to Him your congenital weakness, 

But come, for He is remorseless. 

Call Him unjust, but come. 

Do not mock or defy Him, for He will prevail; 

He regardeth not you ; He hath swallowed the worlds 

and the nations ; 
He hath humor, too: disease and death for the smugly 


For such is the Law, stern, unchangeable, shining. 
Making dung from souls and souls from dung. 
Thrilling the dust to holy, beautiful spirit. 
And returning the spirit to dust. 
Come, and ye shall know Peace and Joy, 
Let what ye desire of the Universe penetrate you, 
Let Loving-kindness and Mercy pass through you. 
And Truth be the law of your mouth. 
For so ye are channels of the divine sea, 
Which may not flood the earth but only steal in 
Through rifts in your souls. 



(By Yomtob of York. The translation of this curiosity 
of literature preserves, without adding or subtracting a 
single word, the precise meter, rime-scheme, and alpha- 
betical acrostic of the twelfth-century Hebrew original. 
The Lily is one of the names for Israel.) 

Ay 'tis thus 
By thy grace 

Cast scorn o'er 
Z?ear God deign 

E3.T in lieu 

(9rant also 
/^eal our shame 

/ust forgiving, 
Zist our cry. 

My wound heal, 
Now gain praise 

O forgive ! 
-Praised for grace. 


Evil us hath in bond ; 

guilt efface and respond 

" Forgiven ! " 

and abhor th' Informer's word ; 
this refrain to make heard 

" Forgiven ! " 

give him who intercedes; 
answer. King, when he pleads, 

" Forgiven ! " 

the Lily blow in Abram's right; 
and proclaim from thine height 

" Forgiven ! " 

Mercy living, sin condone ; 
loud reply from Thy Throne 

" Forgiven ! " 

deep conceal stain and flake, 
by Thy phrase " For My sake, 


Thy sons live from thee reft; 
Turn thy face to those left — 

Forgiven ! " 

^aise to Thee this my plea, take my pray'r, 
Sin unmake for Thy sake and declare, 

" Forgiven I " 

Tears, regret, witness set in Sin's place ; 
C/plift trust from the dust to Thy face — 

" Forgiven 1 " 



(Synagog Hymn in the Original meter.) 

Lord of the world, He reigned alone 
While yet the Universe was naught. 
When by His will all things were wrought, 
Then first His sovran name was known. 

And when the All shall cease to be. 
In dread lone splendor He shall reign. 
He was, He is, He shall remain 
In glorious eternity. 

For He is one, no second shares 
His nature or His loneliness; 
Unending and beginningless. 
All strength is His, all sway He bears. 

He is the living God to save. 
My Rock while sorrow's toils endure. 
My banner and my stronghold sure. 
The cup of life whene'er I crave. 

I place my soul within His palm, 
Before I sleep as when I wake. 
And tho my body I forsake, 
Rest in the Lord in fearless calm. 



33 P 





APR 271933 

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